


all the devils are here

by flintandfuss



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dealing With Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Working through their issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintandfuss/pseuds/flintandfuss
Summary: “But slaying a dragon is dark stuff, too dark even for my family. You don’t slay a dragon unless you’re trying to open a doorway to hell.” — Baz Pitch, Carry OnIf you accidentally opened a portal to hell, would you use it?You would if you’re Simon Snow, Mr. More Heroics Than Sense.And if you were Basilton Grimm-Pitch, you would follow. Because you’re weak. Because Simon Snow is a force of nature. Because your mother could be down there.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 22
Kudos: 58





	1. walk backwards into hell

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been tumbling around my head since I finished the series a few months ago. I kept telling myself I wasn't going to write it, but Simon still thinks he was unwanted, and Lucy is stuck between worlds, and Baz didn't get to talk to his mum, and our boys have _so many unresolved issues_. And Simon did actually kill a dragon, so *shrug*. Here we are. 
> 
> (Fair warning, most non-Simon & Baz characters won't show up for a few chapters. I'm sure that devastates everyone.)
> 
> If you're reading my roommate fic, I promise I'm still working on it. But I have this fic fully outlined, which is more than I can say for most of my work, so it's taking precedence for now.

* * *

_“I will face God and walk backwards into hell.” —@dril_

* * *

The spell hits me before the screams do. The screams are distant, so faint it takes all my vampire senses to snatch the echo of fear off the wind. But if there’s one thing Snow’s magic isn’t, it’s faint. It engulfs me in a haze of smoke, acrid even from this distance. His magic tugs at my thoughts, my clothes, my limbs, tantalizing me to just **pay attention.**

Years of practice help me shake off his siren’s call. “Crowley,” I mutter, “what has the moron done now?” 

_On a mission from the Humdrum,_ the blackboard lectures in multicolored chalk. _One fatality._

Frustrated by my refusal to obey, the magic tugs harder. Fuck if I’ll go running into whatever apocalypse he’s started now. For half a second, I consider starting my Greek homework. _I’m not yours to command, Simon Snow._

I catch another whiff of smoke, tinged with earthy magic. Not Snow’s, but something older. More rooted. 

Sod it all. 

I race down the stairs, around the dormitory, and up the ramparts. Mummer’s House looks strange from this angle. I feel like I could reach out my fingers and brush the top of our tower. Instead, I hurry along the outer wall, drawn by puffs of smoke and an inexplicably heavy silence.

A dragon swoops into view, concentrating her furious fire on Watford’s front gates. I take off at a sprint, ignoring the flare of pain in my lame leg. Dragons aren’t native to this part of England. And they _never_ attack unless threatened.

A shout catches my ear. Another. A frantic conversation on the haphazard battleground. I just manage to identify the voices—Bunce and Snow, who else?—before a roar sucks the sound from my ears. The sound sweeps the sky and rattles the earth. My feet skip across the stones like a pebble on a lake. A wave of heat hits me, pricking my skin with sweat before I register the temperature. 

And then I see her. Hunkered and hulking with a blood-red hide. Her hips bestride the ground at an awkward cant, spread wide and low to protect her burdened belly. Her neck twists in a frenzy, desperate to fling the figure from her back. 

_Snow._ My heart lurches in my chest, too slow to keep up with the frantic pace of my feet. _It’s not her fault,_ I think frantically. _She’s protecting her kittens._ And then, discordantly, _He’ll never come back from this._

I’m not even certain my **Hear ye, hear ye** has landed when I shout, _“Snow! Simon Snow!”_

His blade is buried in her neck, smeared red but not dripping. There’s still time.

“Simon, don’t hurt it!”

His attention falters. The dragon must feel it because her back shudders in an attempt to dislodge him. And then he’s all action and taut shoulders, burying the blade deeper. 

Fuck. I’m running out of rampart. The open gate lies a dozen paces ahead. Unless I suddenly grow wings, I’ll have to veer left and descend the spiraling stone stairs, giving Simon Snow ample time to slay that innocent dragon hen. 

“Simon!” I have to get him to listen. “Wait! They’re not dark creatures!” 

His eyes meet mine across the moat. Wings flap, making a wild tumble of his curls, but his attention holds. On me, not the dragon. Morgana be praised. 

Some half-buried instinct screams at me not to lose sight of him. 

Not to let _him_ lose sight of _me._

I leap. I cast **float like a butterfly** as my feet leave the ground, trusting my spellwork to keep me from plunging to my death. The air goes soft and sticky beneath my feet, drawing me over the moat like I’m caught on a string of taffy.

It’s like my spell pressed pause on the whole violent tableau. Simon watches me from astride the dragon, mouth agape. The hen stops struggling, turning her whole head to follow my flight. One cough from her could end me like a bloody damsel taken by consumption. But Snow’s sword is streaked red and I cannot let him murder that innocent beast. 

I land lightly, still running. Toward the dragon. 

Snow yells my name. “Baz! No! You’re flammable!” His tone is a tangle of frustration and fear and I can’t even stop to enjoy it. 

“So is everything!” I plant my feet and raise my wand.

“Baz!” 

_This will work,_ I tell myself. There’s no other option. 

**“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children are gone.”**

It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. More foolish than my love for Simon Snow and as likely to end in flames. Suess himself could scarcely cast this nursery rhyme. 

Well, Theodor Suess Geisel wasn’t Baz fucking Pitch. 

I throw back my shoulders and raise my voice. **“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire and your children shall burn. All except one, and her name is Nan, and she hid under the porridge pan.”**

No porridge pan will protect me if the dragon decides I’m a threat. One stray spark and I’ll join my mother, restless and desolate beyond the Veil. 

**“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn.”** The spell is draining my magic faster than I can cast it, but Crowley, it’s _working._ Then hen has stopped struggling. Her eyes have lost their single-minded focus. She lands almost lightly in front of me, head cocked like I’m a funny little animal scampering past her den, too small to make a proper meal. 

**“All but one, and that’s little John, and he lies under the grindle stone.”**

My wand arm falters. 

I grit my teeth so hard my fangs pulse in my gums. My shoulder locks in place. My heart pulses furiously, still too sluggish to be truly alive; it echoes the rhythm of my stuttering strength. 

At any moment, Snow could grow impatient. The dragon is distracted, tethered to my rhyme. It’s the perfect opportunity to bury his blade in her brain. Deep down I’m bracing for him to end this, to damn that dragon hen to death, and himself with her. 

Where is Bunce? Or a bloody teacher? _Anyone_ with a kilo of magic to help drive this dragon away. Seven snakes, right now I’d take Gareth and his roving belt buckle. 

But Simon’s blade slides free, and suddenly I have the strength to go on. 

**“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children shall burn.”**

_It’s working,_ I think, nearly delirious, because Snow has slid from the dragon’s back. She’s retreating and stomping and huffing, desperate to give in but fighting it all the same. 

My hand shakes uncontrollably. A cold sweat prickles my brow. But Aleister Crowley, it’s _working._

 **“All except one, and her name is Aileen, and she hid under a soup tureen.”**

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Slowly, more slowly than I thought him capable, Snow circumvents the hen, stepping lightly so as not to startle her. And then he’s standing behind me. 

His hand finds my shoulder. There’s so little magic left in me that I’m casting on fumes, but his touch ignites me, kindling my spark back into a flame. The air crackles and for a moment I can’t tell whether the sparks in my veins emanate from the creature before me or the one behind. I feel— 

“Simon!” The Mage’s voice snaps like a whip. Simon’s hand jerks back like I burned him. (It’s always been the other way around.) “Have you lost your senses? Kill the beast!” 

My voice trips over, **“Ladybird, ladybird—”**

Simon’s turning, drawn toward the Mage like a domesticated dog. He probably hasn’t seen his master in weeks. The Mage has been off ransacking houses for the power-trip of it. Figures the tosser would arrive just in time to bollocks everything up. 

“Use your wand, Simon,” the Mage instructs instead of raising his own. _“Use your words.”_ He’s so fucking patronizing. Like we’re in a bloody classroom instead of fighting to save a creature taken by the Humdrum. “The beast is distracted. Don’t allow the Humdrum to best you!” 

**“Ladybird, ladybird,”** I try again. I feel hollow to my bones, like I’m a chunk of calcium cast into the catacombs. Buried beside my mother in the dusty dark. 

The dragon grows restless, agitated. She snuffles at the dirt, but I hardly notice the fresh grit sticking to my skin.

“But it’s working, sir!” Simon calls. “Baz is driving it off!” 

I can’t see the Mage, but his shock radiates through me. I’ve never heard Snow question his mentor. I didn’t think he knew how.

“You’re letting it _escape,”_ the Mage snaps. He sounds more frustrated than concerned, determined to goad his precious heir into murder. Again. “Simon, _the Humdrum—”_

My magic snaps like a slit hamstring. I collapse to my knees, breath ragged. 

_“Baz,”_ Simon says. I imagine concern in his voice. I hallucinate his fingers brushing my shoulder. 

“Baz!” He sounds truly alarmed now.

Heat slaps me like a physical thing, knocking me back onto my arse. The air is achingly arid. Like the dry, sucking emptiness of the Humdrum has burrowed into my lungs and nested. For one mad moment, I wonder if this is how Snow feels when I close the window. 

And then he’s there, facing down a roiling wall of fire. He plants his feet like no power on earth could move him. That searing flame will extinguish us both like an ember in the ocean—not even a smear of char to mark our remains. 

**“In a puff of smoke!”** he casts, which is mad. It’s a vanishing spell, not a flame retardant. But the wall of fire poofs away, leaving me hacking and shivering on the ground. My eyes sting, streaming tears, but I can just make out the implacable set of his shoulders through the smoke. The glint of his sword. The shadow of his wand as he lets it fall. 

“That’s it, Simon!” calls the Mage. “Show the Humdrum what happens when he attacks our home!” 

If I could move, I’d be on the Mage in a flash, ripping those useless words from his throat with my teeth. Instead, I force myself to my knees. To my feet. 

I stumble, shoes catching on nothing. But Simon’s facing that dragon alone. He’s going to kill her, one of the darkest sins a mage can commit, and it won’t even prick the Mage’s conscience.

“Simon.” My voice rasps so faintly I don’t know if he hears. “Simon, don’t—”

But Simon Snow wasn’t made for nursery rhymes or silver-tongued spells. He’s brute force and bravery to the last. 

The dragon lunges and Simon meets her. It’s a beautiful tragedy. 

Her jaws snap and he whirls away, loose shirttail ruffling as he evades her teeth. He plants his sword point-down between the flagstones and vaults over a steaming huff of dragon breath. He lands like a bloody gymnast, tall and strong, hidden beneath her. 

And then it’s over, his blade wrenching free of the soft underside of her jaw, drenched in blood and gray matter. He leaps from beneath her massive body as she crumples to the earth. He scrubs his blade clean on the grass. I sway on my feet, feeling oddly disconnected from my abject failure. 

Snow catches my arm, face flushed and heart beating wildly. 

From somewhere in the blackened husk of my being, I find the strength to speak. “And you call me a monster.” 

He jerks away and I almost fall. I don’t know how I don’t. 

And then the Mage is there. He clasps Simon’s shoulder, brandishing a grimly pleased smile and a mouth full of critiques. I don’t have it in me to protest when Miss Possibelf leads me away, casting a steady stream of **right as rain** s to keep me upright.

* * *

In my dreams, Snow _goes off._ Sparks bleed from his fingertips and lick up his blade as he buries it in the dragon’s belly. I’m helpless to stop him. Helpless to do anything but watch her eggs crack and splatter on the grass.

You have so much life, Simon Snow. And still, you take it so freely. 

His magic stings my sinuses. It stretches and expands, ballooning out around me. So much life lost, and still, he fights for what remains in me. Snow’s magic devours the poor beast atom by atom until she’s no more than smoke and vapor. Poof! No dragon hen fighting to protect her little puffs. 

His magic seeps outward; searching hungrily. 

The moat goes next, evaporated in an instant. The merewolves, may they never know peace. The second gate. The third. A fourth year peering through an open window, eyes bright with awe and fright. Miss Possibelf with her heavy grey plait and crooked staff. Penelope Bunce.

Snow’s energy flattens the White Chapel and tumbles into the empty space below, racing through the catacombs to consume _les enfants_ in their crypts. My mother in hers. It consumes everything until there’s only him and me, alone in a barren landscape. His magic lies heavy on my mind. My spirit. My lungs. 

His magic is all that remains in the empty wound of the world.

When I wake, my throat feels thick and swollen. Charred. Snow’s magic still permeates the air.

I sit up so suddenly that he startles in his chair. He’s clean and dressed—after a fashion—in grey trackies and a purple Watford jumper. I’m resting on a thin folding cot in the windowless nurse’s quarters, feeling stretched ragged and stuffed hurriedly back into shape.

“You’re awake,” he says stupidly. Awkwardly. “Er . . . all right, Baz?”

I’m no stranger to waking up in Snow’s presence, but something about him waiting at my bedside fills me with disquieting hope. I push the feeling aside with my blankets. 

“Fucking glorious.” 

I swing my legs over the side of the cot, noting with displeasure that I’m wearing my school uniform. The nurse has spelled it clean—or perhaps Miss Possibelf did—but it still feels _wrong_ somehow. Like the dragon’s dying breath is embedded in the fibers.

It wasn’t Snow’s fault. I had almost saved her—he had almost let me—until the Mage cocked everything up. But there’s dried blood on Snow’s palm, caught in his life line. It turns my stomach.

I find my shoes tucked tidily beneath the bed and busy myself putting them on. 

“I, er, brought you some food.” He digs through the school bag stuffed under his chair and emerges with leftovers wrapped in a cold, greasy napkin. “Should probably hit it with a warming spell, but I figured you’d be hungry. ‘s late.” He gives one of his classic shrugs. Offers me the bundle. “Or early, I guess.” 

I don’t take it. There’s a crumpled plastic bottle peeking out between his trainers. Bent over to tie my shoes, I can see he’s stuffed a scrap of his ruined school shirt into the opening. (Snow’s always losing bottle-tops.) When he jostles the chair, blood sloshes inside the bottle, seeping slowly up the makeshift stopper. 

It has a pungent smell, rich and earthy and magnetic. I know, suddenly and terribly, where that blood came from. 

Snow catches me looking. “Thought you might be thirsty.” 

I straighten slowly. Deliberately. My blood has frozen with dread. It chills my voice. “For a blood sacrifice?” 

“What? No! I wasn’t saying—I just—” He rakes a hand through his curls. “It was already there, yeah? No sense in it going to waste.” 

I stare at him like he’s a moron. He may actually be a moron. 

“No one saw me take it.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you trying to damn my soul for eternity?”

He huffs. “Oh, come off it. You’re a vampire, Baz. You’re not eternally damned.” He emphasizes the last two words like I’m being dramatic. Like we aren’t one misstep from our own private apocalypse. 

“Not for _drinking blood,_ you pillock.” Fuck. I didn’t mean to say that. This entire conversation is a disaster. I hurry on, hoping to distract him from what I just admitted. “For taking part in the ritual sacrifice of an innocent dragon.” 

His eyes flare. He squares up in his seat—shoulders thrust back, fingers fighting to punch holes in the fabric at his biceps, knees thrown wide to bracket the chair. “You’re such a prat. Would it kill you to say ‘thank you’? I did save you from being burned alive.” 

How does he not _get it?_

Quickly, haphazardly, I file the hard edge from my voice. “I’m being serious.”

“And I’m having a laugh?”

“Snow.” It’s work to keep my voice even. I want to shake him. I want to scream. “You killed a dragon hen in cold blood.” Well, lukewarm. She _was_ seconds from turning me to tinder. And it’s not that I’m not fucking relieved, it’s just— “Do you have any idea what depths of dark magic that kind of sacrifice can ignite? You could’ve opened a portal straight to hell!”

He rolls his eyes, slumping in his chair. “Oh, come off it.” 

He thinks I’m trying to rile him up. To rub his stupidly handsome face in this disaster of a day. “Simon. Not even my family would harm a dragon.” 

“It was going to _burn you alive,_ Baz!”

“I know!” I snap. “And next time you should let it!” 

Silence wobbles around the vacant nurse’s ward, off-kilter from its sudden ascent.

When Snow takes a breath, he’s just as unsteady. “Are—are you having me on?”

Sometimes his idiocy defies comprehension. “Are _you_ having _me_ on?”

“Hell’s not real, Baz.” He sounds like he believed it until a moment ago, and now he’s trying to wrestle his conviction back under his control. “Not like in the stories.” 

“I assure you, it is.” 

He picks at a hole in his trackies, brow furrowed like he’s thinking hard and it doesn’t agree with him. “But . . . not _really._ Not all ‘fire and brimstone.’ It can’t be.” He looks at me from under his lashes. Hopeful. Painfully naive. “There’s the Veil, yeah? That’s death.”

“That’s limbo.” I can’t believe no one’s explained this to him. What does the Mage _do_ with their clandestine meetings if Simon doesn’t know the basic facts of magickal life? “History is full of mages who have journeyed through hell. Virgil. Dante. Gaiman. Did you think those accounts were _allegories?”_ Despite my best efforts, disdain coats the word. 

Snow throws up his hands so forcefully that his trainers skid. “How am I to know what’s true and what’s bollocks? There’s no sense to these fucking things!”

His heel bangs into the chair, hard. I watch in horror as the chair squeaks backward, jostling his bag. The bottle of dragon blood shifts. The fabric stopper, already loose, falls free. It lands on the floor with a foul _hsssst._

“Simon!” 

In an instant, he’s sprawled half on top of me, arms clamped tightly in my hands. 

“Watch it—!” he protests, wriggling about like a doused cat. 

A pace away, the smear of blood soaks into the stone like it’s sand. A breath later, it sucks the scrap of shirt in after it. 

The floor sizzles, seething. The stain spreads. 

“What did you do?” I demand, shoving Snow off me. He scrambles back on the cot, watching his chair topple, its front leg destabilized by a hole that’s appeared in the centuries-old stone. 

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—” His mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. “It was just a thought,” he manages. 

_“What thought?”_ There’s no denying what’s happening. Knowing _why_ won’t stop it. But I latch onto his admission like it’s a bloody nurse’s cot on a melting stone floor. 

His school bag buckles and the bottle falls, flinging its contents across the floor. Dragon blood soars toward the door, eating through flagstones like acid. 

Snow winces. “That a gateway might help us solve your mum’s murder.”

If I were anyone else, I’d be gaping. “Are you mental?” 

“We wouldn’t have to bother with Nicodemus if we could just sodding ask her!” 

The hole is enormous now. Almost as big as a numpty, and far, far more dangerous. 

“So you decided to open a portal to _hell?_ Aleister Crowley, Snow, you’re an absolute disaster of a Chosen One!” 

His face turns mulish. “How was I to know this would happen? I didn’t _say anything.”_

“Clearly, you didn’t have to.” 

My mind is whirring, scanning for spells that might stop this. **In your tracks** needs _actual tracks_ to stop something dead. **Top it off** requires some remnant of material—stone, grout, packed earth—to expand. 

_Sod it,_ I think, and just start casting. **“Stop in the name of love! You shall not pass! Elvis has left the building!”**

Snow is casting too. He has no wand or mastery of Magick Words, but everything comes out drenched in magic anyway. **“Stop! Undo! No farther!”**

There’s a hole in the middle of the floor that’s roughly the size of Fiona’s MG. Unlike the MG, **hit the breaks!** doesn’t phase it. Even Snow’s magic is useless. 

I’m truly desperate now. **“All’s well that ends well! Ctrl Alt Delete! Brevity is the soul of wit.”**

The hissing stops abruptly. Grainy bits of stone and grout crumble into the chasm, but something has stopped its inexorable approach. 

“Merlin and Morgana,” Snow gasps around a laugh, sounding so alive you’d think he defeated death itself, “I can’t believe that worked.” 

Together, we peer into the blackness. All is quiet for a breath. Two. Seven. 

_Tchu-dun-kOohm._

A bone-chilling sound emanates from the bowels of the pit. Far deeper than the school’s foundations. Deeper than the earth’s core. It echoes up through the darkness, growing implausibly louder with each iteration. It’s like hell is amassing all its fury, and its fury is a fucking balrog. 

Snow grabs my arm and hauls me back. As if there’s anywhere to go. As if half a meter of mattress can protect us from whatever’s coming. 

There’s a creaking, shuddering _ch-duhm._ Rough-hewn stairs slot into place in the teeming darkness. I feel like I watched the wind carve the stone across the centuries, and simultaneously like they appeared from nowhere. 

Snow shuffles forward on the cot, staring at the black passage at our feet. “Is that it, then? The way to hell.” I don’t like the look on his face. It screams _heroism_ and whispers _foolhardy._ I’ve seen it too often to feel safe in its presence. 

“Simon.” My voice is urgent. “We need to leave.” 

He shakes his head, eyes stuck on the stairwell. “Baz, your mum is down there somewhere. Trapped beyond the Veil. We can help her.” 

His legs swing off the cot, shoes whispering across the flagstones. 

I grab the neck of his jumper and yank him back, even as he tries to shake me off. “We _are_ helping her, Snow. Once we find Nico, we’ll unearth her killer and bring her justice.”

“That could take _years,_ Baz.” 

In my mind’s eye, this truce with Simon Snow sprawls endlessly before me. Marvelous. Maddening. Complete and utter misery. 

“And who knows how many others are trapped down there?” Simon’s picking up speed. I tighten my fingers in his collar. “Penny’s Aunt Beryl, that’s one for sure. And maybe—” He stops. Swallows. Takes a breath that seems to fill his chest and keep going, hitching up his shoulders and filling his head with hot air. “Maybe even my parents.” 

“It’s hell,” I say flatly, because he looks so devastatingly hopeful. “Not some holiday to a harpy’s nest. People who go to hell don’t come back.” 

“Some do,” he insists. “Dante. Virgil. You and me.” He says it with such conviction. Speaks it into existence like his magic—wild, nonsensical, bending the world to his whims by sheer force of will.

I shoot him a withering look. “That wasn’t the point of that story.” 

He hitches a knee onto the bed, turning to face me. We’re so close I have to drop his jumper before I do something stupid. Snog him. Strangle him.

“The point is—” 

“The _point,_ Simon, is that hell is pure evil.” 

“It’s not,” he argues. 

I don’t have the wherewithal to cooly raise one eyebrow. They shoot toward my hairline in tandem. 

_“It’s not,”_ he insists. “It’s just another battlefield. A means to an end. We could solve your mother’s murder, Baz.” His knee bumps my thigh. He’s leaning closer, eyes alight. “We could solve a thousand murders and save a thousand souls.” 

I sneer. “Did your Mage teach you that?”

Snow squares his shoulders. His jaw juts towards me. “Yeah. He did.”

“The ends always justify the means if you have the moral bludgeoning to back up your bad decisions.”

Simon launches himself off the bed with a growl. “Fine. Stay here if you’d like. I’m going.” 

He marches right up to the edge of the stairs and hangs his toes over the edge. My heart jerks, a rock clinging to a mountainside as the earth around it falls. Abandoning the safety of the bed, I step closer to the unending black abyss. 

“You’re not just risking your life here, Snow. You’re risking your _soul._ You’re risking the entire magickal world.” I can’t control my voice. I can feel my expression oscillating between dread and derision. “What do you think will happen if you don’t come back? The Humdrum will just nip off into the shadows until the next Chosen One blunders along?”

His trainers teeter on the top step. For a moment, he looks torn. My heart gasps in relief. 

“I’ll come back. I promise.” He raises his foot, his whole body shifting forward.

“Wait!” 

Miraculously, he does. I dig for another argument, something to make him stay. 

Might as well play to my strengths. 

Plastering on a scornful expression, I say the cruellest thing I can think of. “Just because your parents didn’t want you doesn’t make them demons.” His head whips around. I raise an eyebrow, looking infinitely more at ease than I feel. “Or are you expecting to find Wellbelove down there? She has spent the last year trying to seduce me. Maybe she’s part succubus.”

Rage contorts his features. His knuckles go white at his sides. He shoots me a look of such venom that even my vampire immune system quakes. His expression says that he’d like nothing more than to bludgeon me across the head with the closest blunt object. 

I hope desperately that that’s true. 

Eyes locked on mine, he takes a step. Inky darkness envelops his trainer and I know it’s too late. There’s no saving him now.

“Tell Penny where I’ve gone.” 

He descends into the pit at a jog.

I stare into the blackness that’s swallowed him whole, trying to comprehend the complete and utter idiocy of Simon Snow.

Then I follow him into the dark.

Of course I do. Because I’m weak. Because I miss my mother, and some part of me believes he can find her. _We_ can. Together. 

Because not even hell itself can stop me from chasing after Simon Snow.


	2. the dead walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I can't believe that in my rush to post the last chapter, I forgot to thank my brilliant and tireless beta. She’s been so incredibly helpful as I work through plot decisions _plus_ she edits my rambles into manageable sentences. I cannot thank you enough, insanemreads!

* * *

_“When there’s no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.” — George A. Romero_

* * *

When the Hellgate swallows me, it swallows everything. Light. Sound. Time. 

I thunder down stairs I can’t see, eager to confront whatever waits below. If I run fast enough, maybe I won’t have to think about what a bad idea this is. I spur myself on with the thought of Baz and what a complete and utter prick he is. 

It doesn’t help. The darkness is consuming. When I close my eyes, only the eyelashes brushing my cheeks tell me I’ve done anything. And all that blank nothingness leaves plenty of room to imagine what’s lurking below. A crimson-winged devil with a mad grin and a spade for a tail? Dead-eyed spectres who suck the warmth right out of your bones, like Baz’s mum did? Or just more darkness? 

Is there anything left in the world but darkness? 

My trainer catches on a crack in the stone, sending my stomach lurching ahead. I grab the wall in a panic, wondering if I’m about to pull an Alice and tumble into the world’s worst Wonderland. My skin skids on the stone. It peels the top layer off my palm, but I’m so bloody relieved not to fall into the abyss that I barely feel it. 

Slowing my jog, I keep going. My muscles fall into a rhythm. My legs ache—a good ache like a long stretch at the end of the day. When I finally reach the bottom, an eternity must’ve passed. 

It feels like a blink. 

Which means I’m still plenty hot when Baz saunters out of the darkness behind me. His sneering words smack around my head like a flibbertigibbet in a cage. About Agatha. About my parents. About what will happen to the world if I don’t come back.

I should take a look around. Assess my surroundings. I mean, it’s _Hell._ I need to stay on my toes. But every time I turn my head for a closer look, my glare jerks back to Baz like a magnet. The heels of my palm itch to shove him right back up the stairs. 

Would that break the truce? I’d be saving him, technically. And myself from having to look at him.

Baz is scoping out the Hell around us like there’s something to see. Everyone talks about fire and brimstone and inescapable heat, but so far Hell is nothing but soupy, bland _grey._ Like wet pavement evaporated and got stuck midair.

He opens his mouth and, I swear, I’m about to punch the words right from his teeth. 

Baz must realize, because he shakes his head and starts walking. His stride is straight and purposeful, like he’s off to morning lessons instead of descending further into Hell. Watching him, you’d never know he was practically comatose this afternoon. 

For half a second, I think about leaving him to it. Just going our separate ways and seeing who makes it back. 

But even with the hum of rage curled around my spine like a cat, I can’t stomach the thought of letting Baz out of my sight. We _are_ on truce. Even if he is a git. 

I overtake him, keeping two steps ahead. I think if I look too hard at him, I might do something stupid and satisfying. Something that’ll make his eyes go wide and his mouth turn red. 

Instead, I take stock of my surroundings. Fog hangs heavy on the ground. It sprawls from horizon to horizon like an enormous rug, grimy with ash from the fireplace. It swirls around my thighs as I walk, swallowing my feet. 

I chance a glance over my shoulder. Baz’s head jerks. He fixes his eyes firmly past me. 

I wonder what he was looking at. Has he spotted some demon in the distance? If he has, he’s probably already plotting how to feed me to it. But when I look around, there’s nothing to see. Even Baz’s cool, pale skin almost glows against all this lifeless grey. 

Is this what Hell is? Just wandering aimlessly for eternity? Nothing to see or do or feel? 

The silence is stifling. It’s enough to drive me mad. It eats away at my righteous indignation, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I wish I had a Coke to wash it down. 

Saliva floods my tongue at the thought. My stomach rumbles. Why didn’t I think to pack a snack? Penny always packs snacks before a mission. And the nosh I brought Baz was _right there,_ wrapped and ready in a cold, greasy napkin. 

I grit my teeth and try not to think about it.

A film of something—fog, grit, foreboding—clings to my skin. Ash crunches under our feet. Mundanity licks at our heels.

It’s almost a relief when Baz finally speaks. It’s definitely a relief when he says, “Snow. There’s something there.” 

A sense of purpose shoots up my spine. I’m already muttering the incantation for the Sword of Mages when my head jerks around, searching for trouble. 

“What? Where?”

“Not behind us.” I can practically hear him roll his eyes. If I were to look at him, I’m sure I’d see it too. “Over there. Up ahead.” 

I squint, but I can’t make out anything beyond all this miserable grey. 

He grabs the hem of my shirt and hauls me around. His other arm points toward the horizon. _“There.”_

He can point as much as he wants—I don’t see a damned thing. 

“Snow, _right_ _there.”_ His pointing grows more insistent. His arm bumps my side. 

It’s oddly comforting, like Penny’s weight in my arms when I grew wings last year to escape the Humdrum. Something familiar in a barren world.

I don’t want to be comforted. Not by Baz. 

When I jostle him back, it’s not an accident. It’s not kind either. “I get it, you’re a vampire. Do you want a plaque?” 

Baz locks his jaw and stalks away. That lifts my mood a bit. Clearly he was hoping I’d missed his slip-up back in the nurse’s ward. Like I could just bloody forget that Baz admitted he’s a vampire. 

I mean, it’s not like it’s a secret. Or it wouldn’t be if people would just _believe_ me. But it was the first time he’s not denied it outright and I’ll take that memory to my grave. (I realize that’s ironic, considering. But it’s still true.)

He doesn’t seem overly concerned about what’s waiting ahead, but I keep my sword out just in case.

It’s not long before I see it: a lazy line like a snake sunning itself in the haze. It’s made of people. They’re all in grey—or maybe they _are_ grey, like ghosts. (Which is what they are, come to think of it.) They’re milling about in a haphazard sort of queue. I can’t tell what’s the front and what’s the back, but it stretches in both directions until the fog swallows it up. 

My feet speed up just as Baz slows down. All of a sudden, he looks like he’s out for a stroll at the club. His expression is cool and imperious as he surveys the sprawl of souls. 

Tosser.

It’s the oddest procession I’ve ever seen. Old people and young ones, some with arms linked but most standing alone. Some of them look normal, wearing washed out jeans and faded jumpers, but others look like they stepped straight out of an old fashioned film. I catch sight of someone wearing one of those giant lace collars and have to stop myself from laughing. 

“Is that the Sword of Gryffindor?” 

I whirl. Muscle memory lifts my sword and plants my feet, but it’s only a littleun gazing up at me. He’s bouncing on bespoke shoes and his hair is combed like he’s just come from church. 

“Where’d you get it?” His eyes are wide with wonder. “Can I try?” He stops like he’s just remembered something important. Then he folds his arms behind his back like a kid in care during an inspection. “Sorry. _Please_ can I try?”

“Er…” 

I can’t tell if this kid’s Normal or just Canadian. Is magic a secret down here? I mean, they’re dead, yeah? Who are they going to tell?

A woman speaks before I work it out. “Naw, that‘s a claymore. Whereabouts did you get that, laddie?”

Now _that_ I can answer. I’m about to launch into the Mage’s typical speech about justice and chivalry and worthy successors—I’ve heard it enough that even I can repeat it word for word—when another voice pipes up. 

“Sword of Gryffindor? Ain’t that from that movie ‘bout mages?” I can’t see the man who’s talking, but he sounds excited. “Are y’all mages? C’mere right quick. I got a message for my sweetheart. Been fixin’ to haunt her since ‘61.”

“And you’ll keep waiting,” Baz says cooly, stepping up beside me. “We’re not little birds.” 

The man grumbles loudly, but he doesn’t argue. I feel well rotten about it, but Baz is right. If we start taking messages, we might as well join the queue.

“Put that away,” Baz hisses, throwing my sword a dirty look. “Before someone steals it.” 

My grip goes tight on the hilt. “They’re just curious. No one’s going to steal it.” 

He raises an eyebrow, somehow managing to implicate the ghosts around us. The little boy isn’t the only one eyeing my blade. 

When Baz strides away, I vanish my sword and hurry after him. At first, I’m worried someone might follow us, but no one does. I think they’re afraid to step out of the queue.

“I’m looking for information,” Baz says as we move down the line. “Can’t _anyone_ in this Chomsky-forsaken place answer my questions?” 

I half expect someone to punch him—he sounds like a right git—but most of the ghosts are too busy mimicking him to take offense. 

“Do you boys have news from above?” 

“Come here, lads. We haven’t seen breathers in ages. Let us have a look-see.” 

“Kya samraat ne apane pyaar ka shram poora kar liya hai?” 

“Prithee bid me, hast the war ended?”

Baz talks right over them. (A worseger can’t change its stripes.)

“This is a waste of time,” he says finally, stepping away from the queue with a sour look on his face. A couple spirits shuffle towards us, but nobody steps out of line. “These people are all morons. Does dying rot your brain?”

“Technically, yeah.” 

He shoots me a baleful look. 

I huff out through my nose, and the sound jerks into a snort. He’s standing here in actual, literal _Hell_ and he looks like I just out-cast him in Elocution. (Well, like Penny did. And I watched.) 

“It’s not the ghosts’ fault you’re so bloody off-putting.” 

His lip curls. “Souls,” he corrects. “And I’ve never known you to mince words, Snow.” 

I scrub my hands through my hair, suddenly wishing it was _his_ hair I was yanking at. “Fine. You’ve terrified half the queue and pissed off the rest. These aren’t members of the Old Families hatching plots. Stow the scowl and keep schtum.” 

That only makes him scowl worse, but I’m already headed back toward the ghosts. Souls. Whatever they are. 

I smile politely and approach a chipper woman in outdated clothes. “Excuse me. Could you help us?”

She perks up, eying me and Baz with interest. “Live ones, are ye? Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Oh. Er . . .” 

I feel like a right numpty. All that time trailing Baz, and I can’t come up with a single question? Beside me, Baz looks far too pleased. 

“What are you doing?” I ask quickly.

“Waiting in the queue.” Before I can ask another stupid question—or Baz can be an arsehole about the first one—she goes on. “Not long a‘fore the Veil lifts again. Feel real good about my chances this go ‘round.” 

A thrill shivers through me. “You mean we’re really here?” I look up and down the queue: the ashy ground, the faded faces, the dull haze hanging heavy on the horizon. “We’re beyond the Veil?”

She gives a noncommittal nod, head bouncing from side to side. “In a manner of speaking. Hafta go the long way ‘round if you wanna cross good and proper.” She steps back, creating a gap in the line. 

I see something glint in the distance. A river, I think. I can’t see what lies beyond.

I shiver. It’s all this fog. I usually run hot, but it gets inside you and makes your bones chatter.

“Me? I’m happy right ‘ere.” 

The woman steps forward, plugging the gap. The wall of spirits sway like a tide lapping at a quiet lakeshore; docile and untouched by storms. Nothing like the churning waters I saw. 

“So you’re the souls who’ve yet to move on?” Baz says. “The ones waiting to cross into the world of the living?”

She nods. Baz sags and straightens all at once, like a sail whipped about in the wind.

“I’m looking for my mother—”

“Got yourself a parentage scandal?” interrupts a man several paces away. The way he’s looking at Baz, he’s clearly hoping for a ‘yes.’ He looks dead bored. (Well, he is dead. But he looks bored too.)

Baz’s gaze could’ve frozen . . . not hell. It’s not that hot down here, as it happens. But it definitely could’ve chilled our room when the window’s closed. 

“Did she hide an historic artifact?” a young girl pipes up eagerly. I spot her bouncing on her Mary Janes a dozen specters back, but she’s too short to bob above the crowd. 

“She was murdered,” I say, because Baz looks fit to re-murder a few spectres in the queue, and we’ve really got to be getting on. I’ll be right narked if we miss breakfast. (Besides, these people are friendly enough. They deserve better than Baz in a strop.)

The first woman’s face rearranges itself into a sympathetic expression. (Literally. It’s like watching a Mrs. Potato Head.) “You won’t find the likes of her here. If yer Mum came through ‘bout a murder, she’s beyond the Veil right and proper.” She inclines her head beyond the queue, where the river lays hidden. “Exempt from travel visas, they are.” 

“Travel visas?” Baz sounds scandalized. I’m right flummoxed. 

“Fer holiday. Better to pop over for a sightseein’ tour than deal with that nastiness ‘cross the river.” She leans closer, eyeing the busybodies around her in the queue. “I play my cards right and I’ll get a proper haunting. A hundred years in some ol’ castle. Two, if the wraiths and me get on.” 

My forehead scrunches. “So you haven’t even tried to move on? You just got here and . . . queued up to go back?”

“That’s the ticket!” She doesn’t sound offended, though I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I sounded almost as scornful as Baz. 

I can’t understand it. Giving up before you’ve even tried.

“How long have you been here?” Baz’s voice has gone quiet, his tone unreadable. 

The woman lifts onto her toes, bobbing and weaving in place. There must be some kind of announcement board like they have at rail stations, because she nods her head and drops back to solid ground. 

“Going on 193 years.” The queue inches forward and she budges up, looking cheerful. “It’s gonna be a quick couple of decades, innit?”

When the next gap opens, Baz and I shuffle through. You’d think touching a spirit wouldn’t chill you so much down here, but they’re just as awful as Baz’s mum. I shake off a bone-deep chill, but Baz can’t stop shivering. He’s working his jaw like his fangs ache. I’m surprised he hasn’t cast a fire in his palm.

Which reminds me. He’s a fire mage. And he’s _flammable._ I mean really, seriously flammable. How did he not go up in a puff of smoke years ago?

“Ferryman’s over there. A right nice fellow, he is.” The helpful spectre smiles like she thinks we’re mad but she wishes us all the best. I smile back at her. “Tell him Lou sent you.” 

Baz’s mouth turns down at the corners. It pulls my smile wider, like our mouths are attached by marionette strings. 

“Thanks, Lou,” I say, shuffling backwards as Baz starts for the ferry. “We won’t forget this.” 

“Remember!” she calls after us. For a second, I think that’s all she means. _Remember this. Remember me._ But she goes on. “Don’t stray from the path!”

There’s no path beneath my feet, just ash and fog rolling vaguely toward the river. I tuck away her words for later. Experience has taught me that kind of cryptic advice always saves your skin eventually. 

* * *

The river reminds me of the moat at Watford. It’s wider and roiling and there are no merewolves (no matter what Baz says about where the Mage got them), but it’s just a river, really. We find the ferryman at the end of faded pier, leaning on his pole like he’s bored. He’s wearing a long, black, hooded cloak, but his face isn’t hidden and he doesn’t look evil or cruel. He looks like a bloke manning the register at a petrol station. Waiting for the end of an eternal shift. 

“Charon, is it?” Baz asks. 

I’m surprised when the bloke nods. Baz is so bloody smart he probably has a map of Hell drawn up in his head. I’m suddenly glad I didn’t shove him back up the stairs.

“Breathers,” Charon says. “You’re a sight, aren’t you? You don’t usually come in pairs.” 

“Why not?” I ask, instantly suspicious. You don’t spend eight years fighting all manner of dark creatures to brush off a statement like that.

Baz rolls his eyes. “Because when some moron says, ‘Let’s take a jaunt through hell,’ their friend usually talks them out of it.”

I’m so surprised I stop glaring at the ferryman. _“Friend?”_

Baz’s mouth pinches tight. “‘Superior in intellect, class, and ability’ is a bit of a mouthful, Snow, but if you insist.” 

My neck heats, pushing back the fog’s chill. I unleash a low growl. We don’t have time for Baz’s snark. We’re on a mission. Baz may be a right git sometimes, but I trust him more than this wannabe grim reaper. (Or actual grim reaper. I’m not clear on that point.)

“Crossing the river?” Charon asks. 

“Is there another option?” Baz retorts.

I’m about to tell him to stop antagonizing our ticket out of here when the ferryman nods.

“I know another odd pair that might return you topside.” He smiles, a faint, private thing. “As long as they’re not dining out when I send the summons. The last fellow went up that way.” 

Baz looks thoughtful. “Gaiman?”

“The very same.” 

Seriously, how does Baz _know_ that? 

I push in front of him, tired of feeling like a primary schooler with a bunch of care workers talking over my head. “We need to cross the Veil.” 

“Then you need to cross the river,” Charon says mildly, pushing up off his staff. He gestures us into the punt. “I usually charge an obol—or whatever passes these days—but breathers cross free of charge.”

I don’t budge. “Because you’re hoping we’ll stay?”

He shrugs, readying the ropes to cast off. “They usually do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the descent into Hell. Thanks for sticking with me! Next chapter we'll get to the fun stuff (aka tormenting Baz and Simon), but I certainly had fun playing with these neutral-aligned souls. 
> 
> As for future updates, I have a feeling this fic might spiral past my chapter estimate... My goal is to post a chapter every two-ish weeks, but I have a lot going on in my personal and professional life, so no promises.
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider letting me know! It makes wrestling my thoughts onto the page worthwhile :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this crazy idea a chance! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)


End file.
